The Inspector's Insects
by PrinceofElsinore
Summary: "Something is creeping up the stairs, creeping, crawling, through your hairs, and up your neck and over your chin: close your lips, don't let it in. There's no use in running away when the Inspector comes to play." Your best hope is to act Dead. (Human AU, one-shot, not Germancest, warnings inside)


**I decided to do another horror fic for Halloween! I know, a week late... sorry. Thanks so much to Lilien Passe for her help!**

[Update: By all rights I should mention Kelly Link's short story "The Specialist's Hat," which provided the kernel of inspiration for this story! You can read it online, and I recommend it if you like creepy stories.]

**This one comes with a number of WARNINGS (PLEASE READ). First, the not too spoilerish ones: **bugs and creepy crawly things, blood, supernatural elements, alcoholism, bad parents.

**IF YOU ARE NOT WORRIED ABOUT TRIGGERS I SUGGEST YOU SKIP THE REST OF THE WARNINGS AND JUMP STRAIGHT TO THE STORY. IF YOU NEED MORE DETAILED WARNINGS, HOWEVER, READ ON:**

**~SLIGHTLY SPOILERY WARNINGS~**

Child abuse, implied child molestation, implied self harm and suicide, character death.

**Now on with the fic.**

**...**

The Inspector's Insects

"Ludwig." A whisper.

The room is dark and silent.

"Ludwig." More insistent.

"Mmm…?" A tired groan.

"Ludwig, wake up."

"…Gilbert? It's late…"

"But I haven't seen you all day."

Ludwig grins sleepily at the dark room. He feels Gilbert sit on the bed.

"Want to play a Game?"

Ludwig nods expectantly.

"You have to lie very still, and keep very quiet."

Ludwig nods again, and lies down. Gilbert lies down next to him.

"Whoever lies stiller and keeps quieter for the longest wins."

Ludwig almost nods, but stops himself. That would be moving, and he must keep still.

He takes the Games with Gilbert very seriously.

The room is dark and silent.

When he wakes up and finds his blankets twisted in a knot he realizes he has moved too much in his sleep.

Gilbert has won again.

…

When Ludwig comes home from school, he enters the house as quietly as possible. It is a trick Gilbert has taught him; you go in the back door, not the front one that squeaks on its hinges, and you have to lift up on the handle so it doesn't make a loud _click_ as you turn it. Then keep the handle turned as you open the door and go in, and don't let it go until the door is closed, so so softly, behind you, and then slowly, slowly, turn the handle back.

It is only six paces from the back door to the stairs, but they are the most dangerous steps because you have to cross the hallway where the floor creaks, and where you can be seen.

Ludwig steps carefully, trying to remember which floorboards Gilbert told him were safe. He makes it to the stairs. Those are easier, because he simply has to walk close to the wall in order not to make a noise.

He is about to go up to his room when a voice comes from down the hall: "That you, boy?"

Ludwig freezes like an animal in headlights. He turns back. He thought he had been silent. But he is never as good at this Game as Gilbert. He can never be as quiet as Gilbert.

"Get in here."

Ludwig follows the voice to the family room, where Father is sitting on the couch.

Father is almost always sitting on the couch.

"What do you think you're doing, sneaking around. You're always sneaking around."

Father eyes him suspiciously. He sounds like he has cotton balls in his mouth.

"It's just a game," says Ludwig quietly.

"What kind of stupid game—baseball. Football. Those are real games for boys your age, not these… weird ideas you get."

"Gilbert taught it to me…"

Father's eyes flash angrily.

"Stop talking nonsense. Make yourself useful. Get me some more ice."

Ludwig slips into the kitchen quickly, silently.

He wishes Gilbert were home, but Gilbert is always away during the day. He doesn't understand why he has to be gone all the time, but that's the way it's been for a while now.

He puts ice in a glass and brings it to Father. He takes it without a word.

Sometimes Father is silent, too. When he is looking far away, seeing things Ludwig cannot, and it seems he wouldn't hear even if Ludwig spoke right next to him. Ludwig much prefers that to when he wants to talk.

He looks like that now, so Ludwig leaves, silently.

…

"You know the best way to win?" Gilbert asks.

Ludwig shakes his head.

"You act Dead. When you're Dead, you don't even have to try to be quiet, or still. It becomes easy, natural. As natural as breathing is when you're Alive."

Ludwig nods. It makes sense. Most of what Gilbert says makes sense, in its own way. At least more sense than the teachers at school, more than the other children, more than their father.

"Can you still hear, when you're Dead?"

"Yes: in fact, being Dead makes your hearing even better than when you're Alive. You can hear everything, even an insect landing on a window pane."

Ludwig nods. He strains his ears very hard, but he cannot hear much. The room is dark and silent.

Perhaps he is not very good at being Dead.

…

When Gilbert first went away, it was quite sudden. Ludwig asked Father why Gilbert was gone, but that just made Father very mad. So Ludwig tried asking Gilbert, but Gilbert simply said he was busy, that he wished he could be home more, but he had Important Things to do.

Ludwig thinks it really isn't fair; most of his classmates' older siblings don't go away until college, but Gilbert is still not old enough for that and he's gone away already.

But Ludwig doesn't ask why any more.

During the day, when he is not at school, and when Gilbert is not at home, he practices the Games. He practices being very still, and very quiet. Even while doing his homework he practices. He acts Dead. Gilbert has said that being Dead gives you the answer to everything, and he's right. Being Dead makes homework easier.

Gilbert is always right.

…

"Do you know why we play these Games, Ludwig?"

Ludwig shakes his head.

"It's practice. For when you have to be quiet, and still, for a very long time."

Ludwig wonders how long a very long time is.

"But why do you have to be quiet, and still, for a very long time?"

"Sometimes, it's very Important. When the Inspector is out looking for you."

He feels Gilbert lean closer. When Gilbert speaks, his voice is a whisper.

"Have I told you about the Inspector?"

Ludwig shakes his head, but something about the name sends a chill down his spine.

Gilbert notices. "Are you scared?"

Ludwig shakes his head, but he is scared.

"It's okay—remember, when you're Dead, you don't have to be afraid of anything. Nothing can hurt you when you're Dead."

Ludwig hesitates. He's not very good at being Dead. But he can try.

"Okay," he whispers. "Tell me about the Inspector."

"Alright." Gilbert moves closer. "The Inspector used to be a boy like you and me. But one night, an insect crawled into his mouth while he was sleeping. It crawled down his throat and into his stomach and laid its eggs there. After a while, they hatched, and then thousands of tiny insects filled him up, scuttling through his veins and burrowing in his brain. They grew bigger and bigger and multiplied and multiplied until he was nothing but bugs inside. Now his eyes are too large, like an insect's, so large you can't hide from them. And he has too many arms, so many you can't escape from them. If you're not very careful, if you make too much noise or move too much in the night, he'll find you, and put insects in your mouth too."

Ludwig swallows. He thinks of insects crawling up the walls and scuttling across the floor, and wonders if any have crawled in his mouth without him knowing. But then he reminds himself that he is Dead, so he doesn't have to be afraid of insects or Inspectors.

Still, he wants to be sure. He wants to make sure there aren't any bugs in his bed.

He slips out of from under his covers and pads silently to the light switch.

"What're you doing?" asks Gilbert.

"I'm going to check for bugs," he says, and reaches for the light.

"Don't!"

Ludwig pulls back, startled by Gilbert's outburst.

"Don't turn on the light," says Gilbert firmly. "The Inspector will see it."

Ludwig's shoulders stiffen. He is glad he has Gilbert here to warn him about these things.

"Come back to bed and we'll play some more."

Ludwig nods and goes back to bed, and the room is dark and silent again.

…

"Boy, come here."

Ludwig steps silently into the family room.

Father slams his glass down on the coffee table and reaches for the bottle. He always keeps the bottle nearby. He sloshes more of the bottle's odd smelling liquid in his glass, but his aim is bad and some spills on the table.

"Shit. Goddammit—what are you doing just standing there? Come over here and be useful."

Ludwig approaches the table, but keeps it between him and Father.

"Well, pour me a goddamn drink." Father shoves the bottle towards Ludwig so that it almost tips over, but Ludwig catches it. He fills the glass the way he knows Father likes.

As he sets the bottle down, he catches sight of a black smudge on the white wall behind Father.

An insect. A large one.

Ludwig thinks of the Inspector and shudders. He tries to act Dead so he won't be afraid, but it's not easy when Father is talking to him.

"Come here, sit down." Father gestures haphazardly next to him on the couch and nearly spills more of his drink.

Ludwig doesn't want to sit on the couch, so near to that insect.

He reminds himself to be Dead. He sits.

"You wanna drink?"

Father peers at him with pale, bleary eyes. There are even more cotton balls in his mouth than usual, and even from where he is sitting Ludwig can smell him, sweet and rotten at once. He wonders if being Dead sharpens smell too.

He shakes his head.

Father grunts, and drinks.

He is silent a while, and Ludwig thinks maybe Father has forgotten he's there.

But then Father speaks.

"You said Gilbert's been talking to you."

It isn't a question, so Ludwig doesn't answer.

Another drink. "What's he told you."

It doesn't sound like a question, but it is. Ludwig tries to think of an answer. It shouldn't be too hard, because being Dead gives you the answer to everything.

"He… teaches me games." He tries to make it sound like normal games, not the Games that he and Gilbert play.

"Yeah, I know about your fucking weird games. He tell you anything else?"

Father's voice is raised, but Ludwig doesn't let it scare him. He is Dead, he is untouchable.

"No."

"You fucking lyin' to me, boy?" Suddenly Father's hand is gripping his shirt, and his face is very close. The smell of sweetness and rot is almost enough to choke Ludwig. "You lyin' like your brother lied? That fucking little filthy liar—you don't listen to a word he says, hear? You don't listen to a fucking word!"

Ludwig tries very hard to be Dead, but he is still quivering when Father stops shaking him.

But then the grip slackens. It moves from the front of his shirt to the back of his neck, soft.

Father chuckles. Ludwig thinks it sounds like bones clattering, dry and hollow.

"What am I saying…" Father mutters. He pats Ludwig on the back. "You gotta look out for me, you hear? Sometimes I think I'm going crazy…"

Father's hand is too warm on his back. Ludwig wants very much to leave. If only he were Dead, he would be cool and calm all the time, never too warm and nauseous like now.

Father rubs his back. "Gotta forgive your old man, he gets weird ideas…" He chuckles again. More bones clacking. "You don't mind me, now. Huh, the drink sure makes me think strange things sometimes. Say things… you know I don't mean them, don't you?"

His fingers tickle Ludwig's scalp as he combs sloppily through his hair. "I'm just… looking out for you. Can't go believing everything you hear…"

Ludwig feels Father's eyes on him, but doesn't dare meet them.

Father sighs. "Get's lonely, you know, ever since… You understand. Must understand, all that time alone up there in your room. Shouldn't be so shy…"

His hand drops to Ludwig's waist, and he pulls him closer.

Ludwig thinks, if he is Dead, nothing can hurt him.

"You an' me, we should spend more time together. Why you always go hiding away up there, huh?"

Father's breath is hot and heavy on his neck, the rotten sweetness dizzying. The chuckle like rattling bones.

"Funny, sometimes I forget—I think that you're your brother. Isn't that strange, how easy it is to forget…"

Ludwig tries so very hard to be Dead, but it is difficult when there are fingers, large and strong, digging into his belly, making him hot and sick. He thinks Father must not realize how tight he is holding him. They are like pincers, biting into his flesh.

And then suddenly they are gone—Father has jumped in his seat and sloshed his drink down his front.

"Shit! Fucking—" He swats at his sleeve frantically. "These goddamn bugs! Jesus Christ, I knew those window screens were a fuckin' rip-off that sonuvabitch—"

Ludwig takes advantage of Father's distraction to slip away, so very quietly.

…

"How can you tell, when the Inspector is going to come?" Ludwig whispers.

"You can hear him. Always, you hear him first. Something creeping up the stairs. Like an insect. Sometimes, he's slow, and you hear him breathing, like something that hasn't used its lungs in a very long time. And you can smell the death on him."

"What does death smell like?"

"Like flowers and fruit left too long in the heat."

"But you don't smell like that when you're Dead, do you?"

"Not when you're Dead; only when you're dead."

Ludwig nods, but isn't sure he understands.

He is silent and still. He listens in the darkness, but hears nothing.

Gilbert speaks again. "Sometimes, though, he comes all of a sudden, so you hardly have any time to hide. That's when he's most dangerous. Because being Dead isn't enough. You have to be Dead and Hidden."

"But where can I hide?"

"I'll show you."

Gilbert rises from the bed. Ludwig follows, but he can't see where his brother is in the dark.

"Gilbert, I can't see. Can't we turn on the light just for a moment?"

"No." Gilbert's voice is sharp as a whip. "Not even for a moment. Remember? The Inspector will see. The light makes it easier for him to find you. Insects are attracted to light. Here, take my hand. When you're Dead, it's always dark, but it doesn't make a difference to you. You don't need to see, when you're Dead. But the Inspector can't see in the dark."

"Oh." Ludwig reaches out, and finds Gilbert's hand. He gasps. "Your hand is so cold."

"No, yours is just warm. Try to cool down; it makes it easier to be Dead."

Gilbert leads him towards the closet, and opens the door without making a sound. He pulls Ludwig inside.

Ludwig has never liked closets in the dark, but then he remembers he is Dead, and has nothing to be afraid of, and that darkness makes no difference to him.

"Down here." Gilbert crouches down, and guides Ludwig's hand to the back wall, behind a stack of boxes full of old clothes.

Ludwig feels along it, and finds the outline of a little door, not even half his height.

"I've hidden in there lots of times."

"Is it dark in there?"

"Very dark."

"Are there insects?"

"Probably. But they aren't the Inspector's insects, so it's alright."

Ludwig nods. If he is Dead, darkness and insects can't hurt him.

"Gilbert… have you ever seen the Inspector?"

Gilbert is silent a moment. "I have. But not all of him. Not his face. When he's looking at you, you can't look back at him."

Ludwig's eyes widen. "He's seen you?" he breathes.

"…Yes."

"Has he—" But Ludwig stops. He thinks of bugs crawling into his brother's mouth, and he can't bring himself to ask the question. Instead, he asks, "Why is he called the Inspector?"

"Because that's what he does. He Inspects you. With his insect eyes and his insect hands. They crawl up your legs and over your belly like ants."

Ludwig shudders.

"Come on," says Gilbert suddenly. "Back to bed."

He takes Ludwig's hand and leads him out of the closet.

Gilbert's hand still feels cold to Ludwig, and wet. Something smells rusty, too. Ludwig opens his mouth to ask what it is but is cut short.

"Shh!" Gilbert freezes, perfectly still in the way that only he can be.

Ludwig tries to stand as still as Gilbert. He listens, very hard, as Gilbert seems to be doing.

And then, with his Dead hearing, he catches something. A door creaking.

Quietly, so quietly Ludwig is sure he could not hear it if he did not have Dead hearing, Gilbert whispers, "He's here."

Ludwig's heart beats a triple pace. He tries to calm it, tell himself it is alright, he is Dead, he can hide and keep quiet, the Inspector will not find him; but his body will not obey his mind.

Gilbert ushers him back into the closet. He moves the boxes aside and opens the small door, impossibly silent. Ludwig crawls in. Gilbert crawls in after him, and sits impossibly still.

Ludwig tries to copy his brother, but his heart still hammers in his ribcage, throbs in his ears.

"Your heartbeat is too loud, he'll hear it," warns Gilbert in that same silent whisper. "When you're Dead, you don't have a heartbeat to give you away."

Ludwig tries so very hard to be Dead.

There is something on the stairs. Something creeping, like an insect.

_Something is creeping up the stairs,_

_Creeping, crawling, through your hairs,_

_And up your neck and over your chin:_

_Close your lips, don't let it in._

_There's no use in running away_

_When the Inspector comes to play._

Gilbert is whispering, chanting, so quietly Ludwig can only make out the words if he listens with his Dead hearing. Each syllable is as soft as an insect landing on a windowpane.

And the Inspector is in the hallway. The groan of the floorboards under his feet sounds like the roar of thunder to Ludwig's Dead ears.

He is coming closer, and closer.

And he is muttering to himself, under his breath. Words that even with Ludwig's Dead hearing he cannot make out. They sound more than foreign; they don't even sound like human language. Grunts and slurred sounds like words aborted before they are fully formed.

And still Gilbert is whispering, next to him:

_The Inspector sees, the Inspector knows_

_Every inch from head to toes._

_So find yourself a place to hide,_

_So his bugs don't get inside_

_And into your stomach and under your skin—_

_They'll never come out once they've got in._

Suddenly Gilbert stops. The silence is very loud. And Ludwig realizes the Inspector has stopped, too. Right outside his door.

Ludwig doesn't breathe. He doesn't need to, because he is Dead.

The door handle turns. The creak of hinges.

Footsteps: one-two, three, four-five—uneven, drawing nearer.

He hears the breathing, the wheezing of lungs long unused, just as Gilbert said. And he smells the putrid fruit and flowers, just as Gilbert said.

The footsteps stop. Ludwig isn't sure where they are, but they aren't at the closet; not yet.

More murmuring, gurgling, like some terrible infant trying to speak.

And then, over the hammering of his heart in his ears, he hears it: a low, long moan, slowly morphing into recognizable sounds.

"Gilbert… Gilbert…"

Ludwig is frozen to the spot as the Inspector calls his brother's name in its unearthly, inhuman voice.

"Gilbert… I know you're in here…"

There is rustling, like blankets being rearranged. The Inspector is searching his bed.

"Come out, don't be so shy…"

The last words are close, far too close. He is at the closet.

Ludwig is so cold, and so still, and so silent, he thinks perhaps he's truly succeeded now. Perhaps he really is Dead, so Dead that he won't wake up in the morning. So Dead that he doesn't have to be afraid, even when the Inspector's hand is on the doorknob, even when he opens the door and the smell and the sound of his breath are so close, even when he shuffles through the clothes hanging in the closet and knocks some clumsily to the floor only a foot away from where Ludwig lies hidden—

"Oof!—" It is muffled, but Ludwig hears something stumble. As if the Inspector has tripped, or run into something. Gilbert was right; the Inspector cannot see in the dark.

There is more mumbling, hushed and incoherent, but unmistakably angry, like the buzz of swarming bees. Then a loud clattering, like the Inspector has kicked something out of his path.

The footsteps stagger away. Back, back to the door, back into the hallway, back down the stairs.

The room is dark and silent.

…

"Gilbert, how did you learn to be Dead?"

"I learned because I had to."

"But how did you get so good at it?"

"I practice. All the time."

"Even when you're gone during the day?"

"Especially then."

Ludwig thinks that perhaps he does not practice hard enough.

"Gilbert… is the Inspector Dead?"

"No, but he brings death with him."

"When do you think he'll come again?"

"You can never know."

"But… what do you do, if he does find you?"

"There's nothing you can do then."

He wants to ask what happens if the Inspector's insects get inside you, but he's not sure he really wants to know the answer.

He wonders if the Inspector's insects are already inside of Gilbert.

"Gilbert, last night, why did he call your name?"

"Because he remembers me. You should be glad he doesn't know your name yet."

"Does that mean he's not looking for me?"

"For now. But still, if he finds you, he'll put his bugs in you anyway. So it's best to be Dead, like me."

Ludwig is silent at that, and still. He waits, and listens for the insect on the stairs.

…

The next night, just after he's gone to bed, Ludwig hears something downstairs. But it is not the Inspector.

It is Father's voice, loud and angry, as it sometimes is when he's had too much of the odd smelling liquid.

Ludwig acts Dead, so that he can listen with his Dead hearing.

Father is shouting, as if there is someone else in the room.

"You—filthy little liar!"

The crash of a bottle breaking.

"I told you to keep your mouth shut—"

More clattering, smashing.

"—Teach you a fuckin' lesson, boy—"

Ludwig doesn't like the yelling and the crashing, so he stops listening. He wonders who Father is speaking to, though. Maybe Gilbert will be able to tell him.

He doesn't have to wait long for his brother to arrive.

"Gilbert, who was Father talking to downstairs?"

"Me."

Ludwig is surprised. He didn't think Gilbert ever spoke to Father anymore.

"Are you okay? I heard things breaking—"

"Don't worry, I'm fine. Remember? Nothing can hurt you, when you're Dead."

Ludwig nods. He wishes he could be as brave as Gilbert. He tells his brother so.

"I'm not brave. When you're Dead, you don't have to be brave."

"Oh." Ludwig wishes he could be as Dead as Gilbert.

Gilbert lies down next to him.

"Tonight, the Game is extra important."

"Why?"

"Because the Inspector will be back, sooner or later. And next time, he might be quicker, and he might look longer. It won't be so easy."

"What do I do?"

"The same thing as before. Just remember, no matter how scared you are, don't turn on the light."

"I won't be scared; I'll be Dead."

"Good."

There is a crash from downstairs, as though Father has turned over the entire coffee table.

"What's Father doing now?" breathes Ludwig.

Gilbert is silent a moment.

"That's not Father."

Ludwig feels the cold of terror seep into his skin. He closes his eyes and tells himself it is just the cold of Death.

He tells himself, he is Dead, and doesn't have to be scared or brave.

He tells himself, he is Dead, and the dark doesn't matter to him.

He tells himself, he is Dead, and he can stay completely quiet and completely still for as long as it takes, until the Inspector is gone.

Gilbert pulls him out of bed and into the closet.

"When you're Dead," he whispers, "you can hide forever."

Ludwig crawls into the small space behind the boxes, and Gilbert crawls in after.

Another crash, and a bang, downstairs. It sounds like the Inspector has broken a piece of furniture.

Ludwig holds himself tight. The Inspector must be strong.

And then he yells, so loud that Ludwig wouldn't even have to be Dead to hear:

"You get back here! Don't you run away from me!"

The Inspector's voice echoes through the halls of the house, distorted and hollow. Ludwig hears the mournful creak of the floorboards as something moves towards the stairs. He is Dead still and silent, but his heart is galloping in his chest, ready to burst through his ribs. He is afraid the Inspector will hear it.

"I'll find you—you'll be sorry! Gilbert!"

Ludwig reaches out to his brother in the dark. He doesn't have to reach far, in the small space. He finds Gilbert's arm and clutches it tight.

Gilbert's skin is cold, and wet. And sticky.

Ludwig pulls his hand back. He feels the substance on it, tacky, moist. The smell of rust again.

Now his heart is in his throat. He thinks he might throw it up.

"Gilbert, what's on your arm?" he whispers, as loud as he dares.

Gilbert does not answer.

There is an insect on the stairs. It roars Gilbert's name.

"You can't hide forever, Gilbert!"

The voice is so close now, so loud, so seething; Ludwig feels his grip on Death slipping. He can feel that he is Alive, too Alive, heart thumping and lungs heaving and limbs shaking. He can't keep still, he can't keep quiet.

He shakes his brother's shoulder. "Gilbert!" He barely breathes the name, but he feels as though he is screaming it. "Gilbert, talk to me!"

He feels something on his hand. Something light, and prickly. It moves; it scuttles. It crawls up his wrist.

Ludwig draws back so quickly he hits his head against the wall. He shakes his arm frantically, trying to get it off.

But now he hears clicking, shuffling, the scurrying of many tiny legs in the dark. The smell of rust grows stronger.

Ludwig cannot be Dead any more. He throws open the little door and pulls himself through, away from the sounds and the smell. He staggers out of his closet and across the room, and flicks on the light switch.

The closet door creaks behind him.

"I told you not to turn on the light."

Ludwig turns.

And he screams.

Gilbert is staring at him, staring with sunken eyes and a lipless mouth. Down his arms run two red lines.

And the insects crawl out, and the insects crawl in. Up his neck and over his chin. Into his mouth and out of his nose. Out of his eyes and over his toes. Ludwig sees them, crawling through his hair—

And the Inspector is at the top of the stairs.

"Gilbert!" His voice booms down the hall, but Ludwig cannot move. He cannot run, he cannot hide. He cannot look away from his brother.

Gilbert steps forward. Blood and tiny black beetles drop from his hands to the floor.

"I tried to cut them out of my skin—but they never come out once they've got in!"

With a bang, the door next to Ludwig slams open. Ludwig throws his hands up before him and cowers against the wall, away from the Inspector—

Only it is not the Inspector in the doorway.

It is Father.

Ludwig lowers his hands and watches Father in confusion.

Father's eyes are crazed as they scan the room, looking right through Gilbert.

"Gilbert! You hiding from me again?"

Ludwig is bewildered. Why is Father looking for Gilbert? And why can't he see him, standing right there with his blood and his bugs?

But then his eyes settle on Ludwig and pin him in place. Like an insect, a specimen.

Father raises a finger and points right at him.

"I'll show you, boy—show you to go hiding from me!"

Ludwig tries to speak, tries to tell him he's not Gilbert, he's Ludwig—can't he see?—but he can't find his voice. Then Father's hand is gripping at his chest, lifting him up, and he can't breathe, not with those fingers digging into his ribs.

Ludwig squeezes his eyes shut. He wishes Father would just let him go, make him go fetch his bottle or more ice or at least tell him what he wants, even shout it at him like he sometimes does, anything rather than this painful confusion—

Father throws him onto the bed with a simple toss.

Ludwig squints into the light, up at Father's face. Father's hair is disheveled. He looks as though he's forgotten how to get dressed. His pants are unbuttoned and his shirt is undone. It hangs open over a hairy belly.

Father's face relaxes, but Ludwig does not. Father's mouth is too slack, his eyes too pale and languid. But his hands come down heavy on Ludwig's legs, holding him there.

It makes him nervous. His stomach is in knots and there's something caught in his throat.

"That's better…" Father's voice is thick and sleepy.

Ludwig hears another voice, too. A very quiet voice, whispering, chanting:

_The Inspector will see, the Inspector will know,_

_Every inch from head to toe._

_There's nowhere for you to hide;_

_Now his bugs will get inside._

_No use trying to run away_

_When the Inspector comes to play!_

Why is Gilbert still talking about the Inspector? Can't he tell it's Father? He's not going to put bugs inside of him. But Gilbert has always been right about everything before.

And then Ludwig sees it. Father shifts, and his shirt falls aside. There, above the waist of his pants, is a mark.

An insect, drawn in ink. With shiny wings and spindly legs. It rises and falls with Father's each breath. Rises and falls, flutters and crawls. It is part of him; it is alive.

And Ludwig realizes: this isn't Father.

It is the Inspector, the Inspector and his insects, only disguised as Father. But Gilbert could see, Gilbert knew—Gilbert was right again.

Now it's too late. He feels the Inspector's insect hands crawling up his legs and onto stomach. They creep under his shirt and tickle his neck. He wonders where the bugs will come from—if they crawl out of the Inspector's skin or his mouth or simply appear over the edge of the bed.

"Shh, shh, just stay quiet now…" murmurs the Inspector in his voice like death.

Ludwig shuts his eyes tight. But he can still feel the Inspector looking at him. He can hear his breathing, heavy and labored, like something that has not used its lungs in a very long time. He can smell him, like flowers and fruit left to rot. It is so strong he thinks he will be sick.

This is it, Ludwig knows. Now the Inspector will put his insects inside of him, now he'll end up like Gilbert, now he knows what will happen to him—

"What the—?!"

Suddenly the hands are gone. Ludwig looks; the Inspector has turned away, facing the spot where Gilbert still stands, gazing on with his solemn, Dead eyes. Gilbert's hand is on the Inspector's shoulder, but still the Inspector cannot see him.

The Inspector tries to shrug it off. "Who's there?!"

He swipes at Gilbert; his hand goes right through him.

Gilbert turns his Dead eyes to Ludwig, and opens his Dead mouth, full of bugs.

"Run."

Ludwig does.

He darts to the door before the Inspector can catch him with his sticky insect hands.

"COME BACK HERE!"

Ludwig doesn't look back. He can hear the Inspector storming into the hall behind him as he sprints for the stairs. He reaches the top step—

The pincer fingers close around his wrist like a vice. They jerk him back.

"YOU TOLD, I TOLD YOU NOT TO TELL—I'LL SHUT YOUR MOUTH UP!"

The Inspector reaches for his face— Ludwig twists away with a shout— A moment of fumbling confusion—

_CRASH!_

The Inspector falls. Like a tree in the forest, hurtling down, tumbling, limbs flailing—

And stops at the foot of the stairs. Dead still. Dead silent.

…

"Will the Inspector be back?"

"No. I don't think so."

"You aren't sure?"

"Things aren't so clear any more…"

Ludwig clutches his blanket tighter around him—the one that the nice woman gave him when all the people showed up at the house.

He and Gilbert stand in the driveway, watching the flashing lights and the men and women in stiff uniforms swarming around them.

Ludwig thinks they look something like insects, scurrying about.

The Inspector is under a sheet on a trolley. They roll him down to the large white van, and he disappears through its doors.

"We can still play the Games though, right?"

Gilbert doesn't answer.

Ludwig turns to look at him.

But Gilbert is gone.

Ludwig is about to go look for him, when a soft hand on his should stops him.

It is the woman who spoke to him earlier.

"Ludwig, is it alright if I ask you a few more questions?"

Ludwig nods. He will find Gilbert later.

"Can you tell me why you were running from your father?"

He looks at her. They all think the Inspector is Father. But Ludwig knows.

"The insects."


End file.
